To Roger Davis
by wingsoverthewater
Summary: From the first day of kindergarten to the day he died, I was Roger Davis's best friend. Mark/Roger friendship, Mimi/Roger. Rated for swearing.


A/N: Sorta a eulogy...just a drabble from Mark's point of view.

To Roger Davis

I've known Roger for what seems like forever and ever, but that's not true. The first day I met Roger Davis, I was five years old. We were in Kindergarten in Scarsdale Elementary. We were drawing pictures with fat Crayola markers, and I wanted the green one. It rolled just out of my reach, right in front of some other boy with chin-length blond hair and bright blue-green eyes. "Hey, can you give me my marker please?" I said.

He threw it back. "Thanks"

"What's your name?" the kid asked me. I told him that I was Mark Cohen.

"Hi Mark." the kid said. "I'm Roger. Wanna be my friend?"

I was sure surprised that someone wanted to be my friend, but I wasn't about to say no. "Sure."

I didn't know it then, but that green Crayola marker shaped my whole world and future.

We always got along so well. Except when he told me that I needed to "get out" more. Roger was always the wild one, climbing on rooftops and doing nutty stuff, while I was the one standing under him, screaming that this was a bad idea and he needed to get his butt off the roof right now.

The first time I ever really, really argued badly with Roger was because of that. Fourth grade. We were sitting in the grass by the soccer field and I was trying to talk him out of another scheme (this one involving punching someone and dancing on tables) and he just came right out and said, "Mark, you're really boring. You never do anything crazy and interesting."

I was hurt. First, because it was a really douchey thing to say, and secondly, because I knew it was true. So I snapped back at him, "At least I'm not desperate for attention, like you are." Bad idea.

With the way things wound up, he beat the crap out of me right there on the schoolyard. We both got detention. That's how we met Maureen and Collins. They were in detention too, for...ah, let's just say they were anarchists and food throwers from a young age.

Now that I think of it, that fight was the best thing that ever happened to us, because it led us to Maureen and Collins.

Oh, they eventually convinced us that our fight was stupid, and we made up.

In my best and worst memories from teen-hood, Roger is always there.

The time that I started going out with Maureen...after I asked her out, I called Roger immediately.

He picked up with a suave, "Hello."

"Roger!" I screamed. "I did it!"

Roger chuckled. "Like, _did it _did it? So you're telling me you went to ask her out and wound up fucking her?" Of course Roger would hear the sex joke in there.

I facepalmed. "No, you ass. I asked her out, and she said yes!"

I could practically hear Roger's grin. "Oh. Congrats, Marky! Looks like our little boy's finally-"

"Shut up." I said, but I couldn't help but grin.

When I couldn't get a date for Homecoming, guess who got me one. It was the day before Homecoming, and though I had a nice tux and a good reputation, I didn't have a date. My geeky persona preceded my nice-kid rep. I thought I would just go stag and look lame, but as I shoved my English books into my locker, Roger strolled up to me, looking confident and handsome as usual. I always felt like a loser around him. Which I guess I was.

"Mark! Found a date yet?" Roger queried.

I shook my head, sighing.

"Well, I've got an answer." Roger grinned cockily.

"Hilarious, Rog. All the nice and hot girls are taken. I know that cuz I asked them."

Roger shook his head. "I got you one...A bit of swopping and bribing...and here you go."

He reached behind him and seemingly pulled a girl out of his backpack. The girl who popped out from behind him had light, creamy skin and long, curly brown hair. Her large hazel eyes sparkled with laughter.

"Hey, Marky!" Holy smokes. It was Maureen!

I could have sworn Roger was magic. To me, at that moment, he was a freaking god.

It killed me to see Roger get into drugs. The moment I met April, I felt like there was something wrong with her. There was something about her that felt...bad.

The first few times Roger stumbled into the loft late, looking all tipsy, I shrugged it off as alcohol. But one hot summer day, I found him asleep on the couch, in shorts and a t- shirt. The clothes weren't really special. But then I noticed a bunch of funny marks on his arms.

Back then, I didn't know. But when I started seeing needles and bags of white stuff lying around, I knew. And I had to put my foot down. Somehow I found Roger when he wasn't out getting money for/doing/buying smack, and I told him. "Roger. I know you're doing drugs. Please, you gotta stop or it's going to ruin your life."

"Why? It's amazing. Besides, it gives me inspiration."

"Soon you'll be writing 'Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds' type stuff." I pointed out, because many a day Roger and I had sat around at home, discussing what the lyrics to that song meant, really.

"Mark, shut up. You're not my mom, for God's sake," he snapped, giving me the finger.

That did it. "But I care about you, Roger. You are my fucking friend, and I don't want to see you become a drug addict. You need to stop. Go to rehab before you turn into a bum."

Roger punched me. Hard. In the side of the face. Then he stormed out of the apartment. But I hoped some of my lecture made its way to the more persuasive and wiser April's ears.

Or maybe it didn't, because three days later, we found April in the bathtub.

After she died, Roger came to me. "Mark...I'm sorry. I've been such a dipshit. And...I'm going clean." More beautiful words I had never heard. Except Maureen's "Yes, I will go out with you." But that doesn't count.

"It'll be tough, Rog." I told him. I wasn't trying to stop him, but he needed a warning.

"I know. I have to, though."

That first night...oh, God. I had just come back from getting groceries. Bursting into the loft, I yelled to Roger, "I got Lucky Charms! Your favorite!"

The only response I got was a cry of pain. I ran over to the couch and found Roger curled on the couch in a fetal position, teeth clenched to keep from screaming. I had totally forgotten that this would happen to him.

I stayed up with him all night. I piled him with the comforters on our beds, and borrowed some from Mo and Collins, to try to stop the chills. Stuffed him with aspirin to see if it would stop Roger from feeling "like I'm being sat on by a fucking elephant," (It didn't). Put anesthetic ointment all over him to see if it would stop him from scratching what he called "itching blood". (It didn't.) Every time he got quiet because it just hurt too much to talk, I nodded off for a few seconds. Then Roger would wake me up by either barfing loudly into a bucket, screaming with pain, or yelling at me about how much it sucked.

At about three in the morning, Roger was still awake, and the symptoms seemed to peak. I tried putting ice packs and hot water bottles all over him, but nothing worked.

"Mark," Roger rasped.

I jerked awake. "Huh? You need something, Rog? Is it getting better?"

"No, you asshole," he said. God, did he sound terrible. "Oh my fucking god, it hurts like fucking hell."

I felt so bad that I couldn't do anything.

"I give up. Go out and get me some of my dope."

I stood up. "You can't give up, Roger! It'll go away soon."

If Roger could have gotten up, I know he would have beat the shit out of me. "GET ME THE FUCKING SMACK, MARK!"

"No!"

"YOU DON'T KNOW HOW THIS SHIT FEELS. IT'S LIKE I'M BURNING IN FUCKING HELL. JUST GO GET ME MY FUCKING HEROIN!"

"Roger, I'm not going. If you want it that bad, get it yourself." I know, it sounds insensitive. But he'd been swearing at me for the last six hours, and I was tired as hell.

Then Roger slumped. All the fight seemed to go out of him. "Then get me a knife."

"What the heck for?"

"Just do it. I want to die, Mark."

I was incredulous. "WHAT?!"

"Look, if- Oh, god- I die, I can join April. And it won't fucking HURT anymore. Just bring me the fucking knife."

Naturally I screamed at him, told him that I couldn't let him kill himself.

Roger shot back at me, "What? Are you afraid of watching me die? Are you so selfish that you don't care what I want, and just do whatever you want?"

I was. Roger was right. He always knew me best, anyways.

I don't know how we got through that night. But the next day, Roger felt better. As soon as he could think coherently again, he apologized.

But I knew why Roger was my best friend. He could see right through me, see me behind my camera and the facades that I'd built my life on. Hell, he knew me better than I did.

Mimi was the best thing that ever happened to Roger. I remember the night she came and asked him to light her candle, I came home afterwards and Roger was sorta chilling on the couch, strumming his guitar and looking sort of dazed.

"What's up?" I asked him. Then I noticed that he was playing music that wasn't in a minor key, for the first time in forever. I think that - Mimi- was his first step to real recovery.

It killed him to see her on drugs. Roger refused to talk about it, but I could tell. He was like, _Been there, seen that, got the freakin' t-shirt. _But Mimi didn't listen. And that drove him nuts. Partly because Roger was a bossy dumbass, but mostly because he knew that she was killing herself. Like he almost did.

When he came back from Santa Fe, and Mimi was missing...boy, was Roger a basket case. He didn't spend more than two hours sleeping at once. He paced so much that you can actually see the marks on the floor if you look carefully. And he worried so much that I was almost worried that he was going to get back into drugs again.

I talked to him about it. Woke up at two in the morning, and saw him pacing in front of the windows, which is where the floor marks are. I got up in my blue plaid pajamas (they were a present from Roger- his fashion motto, to Mimi's dismay, was "Everyone looks good in plaid") and said, "What are you doing?"

"Pacing."

"Go to bed, Rog."

He got really pissed at me, turning to me with fiery eyes and shouting,"Mimi is out there, dying of pneumonia or freezing to death. I've looked everywhere and I can't find her. She's dying, it's my fault, and I can't do anything. And you tell me to go to bed?"

I would have told him that becoming an insomniac would not bring Mimi home, but when Roger gets really stressed, he punches stuff. I like my nose intact, thanks.

I remember that night when Joanne and Maureen carried almost-dead-Mimi into the loft. I was scared, but not just for Mimi. The thing is, I knew that Roger would not be able to live with that guilt on his shoulders- knowing that he had practically driven Mimi onto the streets himself. Roger, frankly, would not be able to live without Mimi.

And when I saw Roger crying over Meems, I knew that this was serious. The only other times I ever remember seeing him cry are 1) That time in kindergarten when his parents confiscated his guitar, and 2) when April died.

They were a great couple. They had their fights- who doesn't- but they always made up within the day. Mimi and Roger, they knew life was too short to spend fighting. Mimi once said that the nineteen years she had spent without Roger was a waste of air. Meems and Roger knew they didn't have a lot of time left, and they wanted to live it, and live it loving each other. Or "doing" each other. I saw them doing both, loving each other and doing it (not that I wanted to, I'm not a peeping tom), and a lot, so I knew they accomplished something.

But oh, god. When Mimi got sick again, and the doctor said that this might be for the last time, Roger almost killed the doctor. He literally got the poor guy in a headlock. "TAKE THAT BACK."

But even if the doctor had taken his word back, it would have still been true. And even Roger knew that. But it certainly didn't mean he had to like it.

For four months, Roger and I watched as Mimi deteriorated. In the beginning, we thought the doctor might have been wrong. She was the same as always- peppy, smiley, twirling and dancing wherever she went.

Then one day, as I was headed to the park to take pictures, I saw Mimi on the stairs. She danced about ten steps up, then stopped, coughing. And I knew that the doctor was right. We didn't have all that much time until the virus really took hold.

One night, I wandered up to the roof, wondering if the moon was clear enough to photograph. As I opened the door, I heard two things, one of which I liked and one of which I hated. Strains of Roger's guitar melody seamed through the night sky, weaving amongst the stars. And Mimi's ragged coughing from the loft below provided a percussion of grief, loss, a race against the clock, a life cut short.

Poetic? Cheesy.

I approached Roger, who was sitting on the edge of the roof with his legs dangling off the side, and sat quietly down next to him. When he finished the tune, he set his guitar down. There were a couple seconds of silence.

"Roger?" I said quietly. He was staring off in space, eyes slightly unfocused. "Earth to Roger."

"She's dying, isn't she," Roger whispered suddenly. "It's the end."

I wasn't about to tell him yes. "Shut up. It's not the end."

"It is," Roger said softly. "I think that if there's a god, He hates me. It's fucking sadistic. I hate it!" His voice rose with rage.

"I don't know...Rog, that can't be true. Come on, what did He ever do to you?" I asked. I'm sort of a non-practicing agnostic-Jew who grew up with a Christian mom, and Roger did have kind of a shitty life, but still.

Roger sighed, and I could hear a slump in his voice. "Isn't there somewhere in the Bible or Torah or Qu'ran that says, like, 'He giveth, and He taketh away'? That's what God does to me. He gives me stuff to get attached to and then he takes it away... April. Mimi. Life."

Then he got up and walked away, leaving me lost for words. Yet again, I could find no words to comfort Roger.

When Mimi had to be admitted to the hospital, Roger didn't leave the hospital until...until Meems died. He was in there for a freaking month. I had to bring him clothes and food and stuff. And every day, Mimi would say, "Roger, go home. I'm ok." We all knew that was a lie, nonetheless, Mimi wanted Roger to live life to the fullest. Sitting in a hospital, watching her die, was not "the fullest".

The last time I talked to Mimi alone was a short conversation- Roger was using the toilet.

"Mark," Mimi rasped. She sounded awful.

"Yeah, Meems? You need something? Are you okay?" I asked her.

She smiled weakly. It killed me to see her like that. It killed all of us. Then she sobered. "You know I"m not ok." When I offered to go demand pain medication from a nurse, Mimi declined. "Mark...when I'm gone-"

"Don't talk like that."

"Why?" Mimi asked. "It's going to happen soon." Before I could tell her to shut up, she cut me off. "Make Roger smile when I'm gone. Tell him not to be a Negative Nancy or anything." She broke off, coughing. "He is going to be moody and depressed, and that's not something you can stop. But don't let him do anything stupid. I'll be really mad if he kills himself or doesn't live his life to the fullest every day. Can you do that for me, Mark? And don't say no."

My throat was so tight I could hardly speak. "I will, Meems."

Or at least I would try.

Mimi's funeral. I had to drag Roger out of bed and demand that he not stay at home and wash the Loft with tears. He was a total basket case when they put her coffin into the ground, wailing like the world was coming to an end.

"What would Mimi say if she saw you like this?" I asked Roger.

"She wouldn't, because she's DEAD." At this, Roger dropped to his knees and howled like a forlorn dog at the moon. "WHY? WHY DID GOD TAKE HER AWAY FROM ME? HE ALREADY TOOK APRIL, AND NOW MIMI? WHY? WHAT DID I DO? I"M SORRY! I"M SORRY!"

I didn't know what to do. I tried to touch Roger's shoulder, tell him that Mimi didn't want him to be miserable like this, but he swiped at my hand like I was trying to stab him.

The only thing I could do was turn around and go home.

When Roger got sick, two weeks after Mimi died, I figured it was because he'd been moping around, not eating, and not listening to me when I said Mimi wanted him to be happy. Now that I look back on it, that wasn't pneumonia like the doctor said. It wasn't AIDS, or drug overdose. It was a broken heart that killed Roger Davis.

That broken heart killed Roger quickly. As he filled Mimi's post in the bed, I filled his post at the bedside night and day. My best friend was dying.

What was I going to do without Roger? I wondered one day. Roger had protected me from bullies, convinced me to move to New York to follow my dreams instead of my parents'. He had accompanied me through my angsty period when I couldn't think of a film idea. He had followed me on my doomed-to-be-bachelor course through life. Now, Roger was leaving me, and I was not ready for that.

I had so many memories of Roger. Even if I spread them out like film stills, they would stretch forever into eternity. _Roger happy. Roger sad. Roger pissed off at me. Roger bored. Roger high _(not a good memory)_. Roger playing guitar. Roger singing. Roger writing songs. Roger and Mimi. Roger and me. And then Roger again. _

As I languished by his bed, head spinning with these thoughts, Roger rolled over and opened his eyes, shiny with fever and blue as the sea, turning them towards me. "You look...emo."

"You look sick." I told him.

Roger examined me closely, and I could feel his eyes cutting me to the bone, like a surgeon's scalpel. As I've said, he could see right through me. "You're moping. Stop it." Before I could defend myself, he sighed. "Mark."

"What?"

"Can you do something for me when I die? A few things."

I couldn't bring myself to lie to him and deny to Roger that he was dying. "What?"

"Be happy. You do have the ability to be a perky, happy, optimistic, fun person, Mark. Look inside yourself." Roger said.

I paused, thinking about this.

"Deep inside yourself...deeper. Deeper...", wheezed Roger.

"Shut up." I told him. How could he be so happy, the man was dying.

"No, seriously, Mark. When I join Mimi...be happy. Live your life without me. I know we've always been together..." Roger's eyes almost misted over. "You can do it alone. Like in that movie Mimi and Maureen and Angel used to love."

"_Chicago_?" I was surprised he had picked any of that movie up. I certainly hadn't, I just knew that had been the threesome's favorite movie. Now the only person who ever touched that movie was Maureen.

"Yeah, that. Learn to stick up for yourself. Live when I'm not here. Live for me."

My eyes watered. Roger had really thought this out. This was the most emotional I'd ever seen him, without sarcasm.

Roger glared at me. "You're doing the moping emo crying thing again. _Stop it, _for God's fucking sake.

A few more things. First, promise me that you'll watch over Maureen. Try to keep her out of jail. Try. Try. At least try. It's understandable if you can't.

Second, watch over Collins too. He's probably going to go free the cows at some slaughterhouse and get trampled to death or something stupid like that. Tell him that I said not to.

Third, take care of Joanne too. Make sure Mo doesn't give her high blood pressure. That'll be hard."

"I'll try." I promise. This was my best friend. If he had told me to fly to the moon, I would have.

"Last thing, Mark?" Roger wheezed. He sounded worse now, if at all possible.

'I lean forwards. "Yeah?"

"Get yourself a girlfriend. Get laid." Roger laughed hoarsely.

"I will, Roger. I promise."

"And Mark. One more thing?" Roger coughed out.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For everything." He gave me a look that said everything he didn't have the breath to say. _Thanks for putting up with me. Keeping me from doing stupid stuff. Making me smile. Telling me to stop doing drugs. Supporting me. Giving me advice. Being my friend._

I squeezed Roger's hand. "You're very welcome...Thanks for everything to you, too." I felt choked, like that time when Maureen cooked dinner for the first time, and I choked on her burnt spinach.

Roger fell asleep here. I guess I did too, but when the nurses woke me up, they told me Roger was dead.

His funeral was a quiet affair. Me, Mo, Collins, Joanne, Roger's parents, some of his old band friends. We didn't invite Benny, because we knew Roger would be in heaven, throwing a double duck fit, if we did.

After everyone had left, I sat on the freshly tilled plot of dirt in front of the headstone carved with "DAVIS". That was when it really struck me. Roger was gone.

I stood up. "Roger," I said softly. "Why did you have to die? You didn't have to follow Mimi and April. You always thought you were invincible, that you were God. Why did you die then? Gods don't fucking die, you bastard." By then I was shouting and probably looked like a lunatic.

"WHY DID YOU DIE? WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME AND MO AND JOANNE AND COLLINS? DIDN"T YOU EVER THINK ABOUT US? YOU SELFISH ASSHOLE!"

Then I sat down again, totally fuming. And you probably will think I"m nuts, but I heard Roger's voice.

_Well, Mark, I had AIDS. Hate to break it to you, but I didn't choose to die. I did want to follow Mimi, because I missed her like hell._

_I didn't think I was invincible. I didn't really think when I first shot up. Then I regretted it. _

_Gods do die._ I _was a rock/sex god, and I'm takin' a dirt nap six feet under, aren't I? It's just that we gods, we get remembered more._

_Why did I die? See point one._

_I'm sorry that I left you and Mo and Joanne and Collins. I didn't want to leave you guys. But I know that you guys are strong. You can make it on your own. Come on, Mark. Don't spend your whole life grieving and ranting at my dead body. Because you look like a fucking lunatic. Go live._

That struck a nerve. It reminded me of my promise in the hospital room. So I stopped. "Okay, Roger. I'm sorry." Then I turned around and went home to fulfill Roger's wishes, to keep my promises, to live- for Roger and for me.

Roger taught me everything I ever needed to know, other than my ABCs. He taught me that moping won't get you anywhere, broken hearts can kill you if you don't struggle to get over them, and that willpower will pull you through. He taught me that love is the strongest thing in the world, that viewing life from the sideliness wasn't the best way to live. He taught me the true value of life. (He also taught me, in second grade, not to baptize cats.)

Sure, Roger Davis was my best friend. If you weren't in that position, which you definitely weren't, you missed a hell of a lot.

Thank you, Roger.


End file.
